Read CHAPTER XIX of The Black Cross , free online book, by Olive M. Briggs, on ReadCentral.com.

“Yes, it is I,” said Kaya.

She put up both hands, lifting the helmet from her head, and the red-blonde hair fell back from her short, gold curls. The spear dropped with a clang to the stage and lay extended between them, glittering.

“My voice was there,” she said softly, “in my throat, leaping and bounding, and the gate was unbarred.” She seemed half afraid, and drew back in the shadow.

Ritter still sat on the edge of the couch, where Bruennhilde had lain, and where Siegfried had kissed her. His face had a dazed look, and he passed his hand over his eyes several times, as if the dusk were too dim for his sight.

“I thought you were the Schultz gone mad!” he murmured. “Gott! What an actress you are!”

A laugh came to him out of the darkness.

“You are no bird,” said Ritter, “You are a Walkuere born. Take the helmet again and the spear. As you stood in the shadow, gazing downward, you were like a young warrior watching his shield.” He sprang to his feet and came toward her, placing the spear in her hand, the helmet again on her head.

“Sing,” he said, “Let me hear it again. Your voice is a marvel! The timbre is silver and the tones are of bronze. Let me look at your throat! Gott but the roof of your mouth is arched like a dome and the passage is as the nave of a cathedral, wide and deep!”

His hand grasped her shoulder, trembling: “Did Helmanoff know you had a voice like that?” he cried, “Tell me, child, did he train you? The part is most difficult to act and to sing. Tell me or am I dreaming still?”

Kaya fingered the spear dreamily: “My voice is bigger and fuller,” she said; “it came so all of a sudden, but he taught me the part, and he told me, some day, if I were not a Countess I could become the Bruennhilde.” Her form stiffened suddenly and she threw off his grasp, springing forward and crouching:

“You are Wotan and you are angry,” she whispered, “The Bruennhilde is your child and she has sinned. You have threatened her, and now she is pleading: ‘Wotan Father!’” Her voice rose, and her form shook as though with sobs. She crept closer, still crouching, and lay at his feet, and her voice was like something crying and wrestling.

Hier bin ich Vater: Gebiete die Strafe . . .
Du verstoesest mich? Versteh’ ich den Sinn?
Nimmst du mir alles was einst du gabst?”

Her voice sobbed, dying away into a tone pure, soft, heart-breaking, like a breath; yet it penetrated and filled the stage, the wings, and came echoing back.

Hier bin ich Vater; Gebiete die Strafe . . .
Du verstoesest mich?”

For a moment she lay as if exhausted; then she covered her head with her hands as if fearing and trembling: “Now curse me,” she whispered, “Curse me! I hear the flames now beginning to crackle!”

The Kapellmeister put out his hand and took hers, and lifted her: “If the House were full,” he said, “and you acted like that, they would go stark mad; they would shower bouquets at your feet and carry you on their shoulders. The Lehmann was the great Bruennhilde, but you are greater, Kaya. Your voice has the gift of tears. When you let it out, one is thrilled and shaken, and there is no end to the glory and power; it encircles one as with a wreath of tones. But when you lower it suddenly and breathe out the sound child little one, what have you suffered to sing like that? You are young. What must you have suffered!”

He clasped her hands tenderly between his own, and stared down into her eyes.

“Don’t touch me,” she said brokenly, “I told you there is blood on them! I am cursed like Bruennhilde. The curse is in my voice and you hear it, and it is that that makes you tremble and shudder just as I tremble and shudder at night when I dream, and I see the body beside me on the floor and the red pool widening. Helmanoff used to tell me my voice was cold and pure like snow; there was no feeling, no warmth, no abandon. You see if I have learned it, it is not Helmanoff who has taught me but suffering.”

Her eyes were like two fires burning, and she put her hand to her throat. “To have the gift of tears you must have shed them,” she whispered, looking at him strangely: “You must have shed them.”

“Is it the curse alone,” said the Kapellmeister, “that keeps you and Velasco apart, little one? Forgive me! Don’t start like that! Don’t don’t tremble.”

Kaya backed away from him, snatching away her hands. Her lips were quivering and her eyes half closed. “Ah ” she breathed, “You are cruel. Take the spear and strike me, but don’t prod a wound that is open and will not heal! Have you no wound of your own hidden that you must needs bare mine?”

“It is love that has taught you,” said the Kapellmeister, “You love him Velasco!”

She gave a low moan and flung her arms up, covering her face.

The Kapellmeister stared at her for a moment. The stage was dark, and only a bulb of light, here and there, gleamed in the distance. Below, the watchman was pacing the corridor, waiting, and the smell of his pipe came up through the wings. The scenery looked grim and ghostly; the couch of Bruennhilde lay bare. Above were ropes and machinery dangling, and darkness.

He clinched his teeth suddenly and a sound escaped him, half a cry, half a groan; but smothered, as though seized and choked back. “Come,” he said. He went to her roughly and took the helmet from her head, and the shield, and the spear; she standing there heedless with her arms across her face. They fell to the floor with a crash, first one, then the other, and the sound was like a blow, repeating itself in loud echoes.

“Go and take off your things,” he said hurriedly, “It is midnight past, and the watchman is waiting to lock the stage door. Rouse yourself go! I will wait for you here.”

He heard the sound of her footsteps crossing the stage, ascending the stair-case; and he walked backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards, in and out among the rocks and the trees. His forehead was scarred with lines, and his shoulders were bent. The look of the victorious General about him had changed into the look of one who has met the enemy face to face, and has fought with his strength and his might, and been beaten, with his forces slain and a bullet in his breast.

His eyes were fierce and his face set, his feet stumbled; he was white as death and weary. He heard her coming back and he walked on, backwards and forwards, without looking or heeding.

“Have you your cloak?”

“Yes.”

“An umbrella?”

“No.”

“It is raining. Don’t you hear it, and the thunder in the distance? The storm has broken. Come, we will take a cab.” He strode across the stage and down the staircase; she following. He nodded to the watchman:

“Still rehearsing,” he said shortly, “Sorry to keep you up. Whistle, will you, for a Droschke? Gott! The rain is terrific; hear it! Come.”

There was the sound of wheels, of horses’ hoofs.

He went forward and opened the door of the Droschke, and Kaya crept in.

She was no longer the Bruennhilde; she was a little figure, slight and pale, and wrapped in a cloak; and she sat in the corner against the cushions, staring out at the rain, quivering at the thunder crashes.

Ritter stepped in behind her and closed the door. “Nonnen-Muehle!” he cried, “and drive fast. We are chilled to the bone! The storm grows worse; it is devilish late!” He flung himself back in the opposite corner, and the Droschke rolled on.

It was still in the carriage. From outside came the sound of the rain falling, and the hoofs of the horses trotting. Kaya shut her eyes. The rhythmical sound caught her senses. She was in St. Petersburg again, and driving in the darkness through the night and the storm; and Velasco was beside her Velasco! They were driving to the church to be married.

“Don’t do that again,” cried the Kapellmeister fiercely, “I can’t bear it.”

“W what?”

“You moaned.”

Kaya crept closer into the corner, and clasped the cloak to her breast and throat.

“It is like seeing a bird with a shot in its breast in torture,” he said, “And when you sing, it is like a swan song. Your soul is on your lips, crying out, imploring. Kaya!”

He bent over the shrinking form in the corner: “I was brutal to you; my heart was sore, seeing you suffer. The words came out like a lash; they cut you. I saw how they hurt you. Little one if I bare the wound to the air again, forgive me forgive me! No don’t shrink away. If you love him like that, my God I know him! He comes to my house! Only a few weeks ago he was there, and he’s coming again; soon, I tell you, soon. I swear I will bring him to you! If he won’t come, I will force him; with my hands I will drag him if he refuses.”

The girl gave a cry: “Drag him!” she cried, “Force him! Ah, he’d fly at a word he’d fly to me!” She caught her breath: “Bozhe moi!” she said suddenly, and laughed: “What are you talking about, dear Master? Velasco he’s nothing to me! A musician, you said a violinist! You forget I am Bruennhilde to-night. We talked of a curse not love. Siegfried is still behind the flames and cannot get past.”

She laughed again, a sound like a trill: “You forget, don’t you?” she said, “I was acting a part! It wasn’t real; I was only playing pretending. How the Schultz cheated you! Ah, dear Master you thought she had lost her wits and her size all at once. You never noticed how she had shrunken; and that was because I stood on tip-toe, and held myself straight with the helmet. If the light hadn’t fallen full on my face, you would never have guessed! I laughed to myself; how I laughed! I laughed!”

“Child,” said the Kapellmeister suddenly. “You are sobbing!”

“I am not I am laughing, dear Master. Look at me! There is the mill across the promenade. How gaunt the wheel looks, and strange, with its spokes dripping, and the rain lashing down! And there is a light in my window a candle, see? Old Marta is waiting, and how she will scold. Tell me, Master dear Master, before we get there, tell me some day may I act Bruennhilde and sing, when the curtain is up, and the House is full, and Siegfried is there, and you at the baton and the orchestra playing? Tell me!”

She drew closer to him, and the last words came out in a whisper, breathless and eager. “Put those other thoughts out of your mind, dear Kapellmeister. Ve Velasco is only a name nothing more!

“If I can sing I will be happy; I promise you. The sting of the curse will pass. You are silent and cold!” she cried, “You won’t tell me, and we are almost there at the mill! Master!”

The Kapellmeister started: “The mill?” he stammered, “What were you saying, Kaya? How cold your hand is, little one! Of course you shall sing. You shall be our great Bruennhilde and the visitors will flock to Ehrestadt, and you will be famous and beloved.”

He hesitated: “I can’t see you, only your eyes gleaming, Kaya. How bright they are, little one, like live coals! Where did you get that name ’Master’? Did Marta teach you? My pupils say that, the chorus, the orchestra, and the singers; but you never used it before. It is because I am old now and my hair is grey, and you are a child. I must seem to you like your father, Kaya.”

“No,” said the girl quickly, “not my father! He was hard and cruel; he was a friend of the Tsar. I I never loved him.”

“Nor me,” cried the Kapellmeister hoarsely, “Nor me!”

The words sprang to his lips in spite of himself; they were low, and he thought she did not hear; but her ear was keen. She bent forward taking his hand, and kissed it swiftly, holding it between her own.

“Dear Kapellmeister! Dear Master!” she cried, half laughing, half with a sob: “You know I love you. When I was ill and alone, and desperate, and helpless, longing to die, you came to me. You saved me and helped me; and I was nothing to you but a stranger. You were father and mother to me; and now, you are my master, and teacher, and friend.” She lifted his hand again to her lips and caressed it: “I love you,” she cried, “dear Master, I love you with all my heart!”

Ritter stirred against the cushions; his hand lay limp in her clasp. “Yes, little one,” he said, “Yes. Your heart is like your voice, fathomless and pure. The carriage has stopped now, and there is the candle, burning up yonder under the eaves. Can you find your way alone, without help? I am strangely weary.”

His voice was low, and the words came slowly, with an effort. He passed his hand over his face:

“Good-night Bruennhild’!”

He held her hands and drew her towards him: “Good-night, little one. There are shadows under your eyes, and your lip quivers; you are pale. Good-night.” He held her for a moment in a strong grasp, staring down into her face; then she was gone and the door closed behind her. His hands were empty, and the horses had turned, and were galloping back through the rain and the night.